Opened the fridge door — damn that smelled like shit. I knew exactly what to blame. That 18-inch long bag of celery.
I was walking Carol Baskins, when I bumped into my wife’s boss (the principal). “She really can’t wait to get Carol in her classroom,” the boss said. “She talks about it all the time.”
In the battle of the Bullshit blog nicknames, I was confident I had picked a winner. Surprise, I fucked that up.
“You know for someone who moves like you, pickleball is a good option,” they say. Fuck them.
Who knew that murdering bitch Carol Fucking Baskins could be a comfort to all mankind?
The Sugar Mama knew, that’s who.
I’ve spent way too much time on the Olympic mix channel trying to pick one of the five NBC screens to watch — only to wonder “what the fuck is this doing in the Olympics” and turn the whole damn thing off.
Gowing up as the boy named Kieran was one thing. But this whole Karen Meme is fucked up. Keep my name out of these mouths.
One of the few joys of road biking is dominating the bike lane — easily passing runners, beach cruisers and mountain bikes.
I’ve spent thousands on a good bike. Hundreds on shoes and clothes. I spent $1.29 on a snickers bar that fucked up a perfectly good ride.
I was struggling to get up Las Sendas when these four 70-something, fat ass, snowbirds from Michigan floated past me like they were riding on a cloud.
I don’t need no IQ test to tell how stupid people think I am. I just need the Bear to leave for a few days.
Talking shit about your “friends” on the internet should be endorsed by the American Psychological Association — it’s a great sanity check.
There are hours (never full days) when I miss being a teacher. Then the Bear tells me “how her day went” and I remember: ohh that shit sucks.
I’m hoping roosters taste exactly like chicken, because my other neighbor just got a Mother Fucking Rooster.
I must confess and probably apologize… I’m a body-size bigot.